


Sorry

by supernatural_fanfictions



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Castiel Dies, Character Death, Dead Dean, Death, Hunter Dean, Love, Other, Suicide, You Have Been Warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-23 10:25:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6113587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supernatural_fanfictions/pseuds/supernatural_fanfictions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas handling Dean's death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sorry

Cas knelt in the grass. It was early in the morning. Dew seeped through his pants. He leaned forward and clutched a handful of grass, ripping it up by the roots. Angry. He was so angry. Angry at himself and the universe and life and death and existence. He'd made many horrible mistakes, but this was one Dean could never forgive. Cas bit his lip until he could feel blood, warm and alive, on his chin.

"I'm sorry, Dean. I'm so, so..." Cas trailed off, the lump in his throat preventing him from speaking. He raised a fist and slammed into the ground.

"Damn!" His voice came out strained. He couldn't tolerate the tightness in his chest anymore. It felt as though every fire in Hell now burned inside him. He wanted to fade away, to have never existed in the first place. He wished he'd never looked into Dean's green eyes.

He'd pulled Dean from Hell. That was simple enough. But there was more to it than that. When he walked into that barn, he was drowning in an ocean. The same ocean he'd spent eternity drowning in. And Dean returned the favor, extending his hand and pulling him up, whether or not he intended to. He could never really escape the ocean. It was a wave, one he was constantly outrunning. Dean had held his hand and run from the ever-growing wave with him. Both of them tripped, but they helped each other up each time. He was content to never make it on to land, just to keep running with his hunter's hand in his.

And now Dean was gone. And it was his fault. That wave had come crashing down on top of him, filling his lungs and every cell of him. Physically, he was breathing. But he felt too full of cold ocean water to breathe. He was struggling to hold himself up. His feathers were soaked and Dean wasn't there to dry them. He looked up at the gravestone in front of him.

Trembling, he traced his fingers over the stone letters engraved before him. Dean Winchester. He let out a choked sob, looking at the pitifully simple epitaph. Beloved brother. There was more to Dean’s existence than just his relationship with Sam. To see his hunter’s demons, triumphs, struggles, and his entire existence, be reduced to two cliché words was degrading and infuriating. Dean deserved so much more. He deserved so much more in life and in death. He deserved a grand monument. The man who saved the world countless the times. The man an angel rebelled against Heaven for. The man who was a beacon in this overwhelmingly wretched place, though he saw himself as a stain on a beautiful painting.

"I tried so hard for you, Dean. I gave everything for you. I left all I knew though I feared the unknown because I knew your hand would guide me. You can't hear my words, but I'll say them, because it's my fault you're in that goddamned grave. I miss you. I miss the way you place your hands on the steering wheel of the Impala. I miss the wrinkles around your eyes when you smile. I miss your bloodied knuckles after a hunt. I'd prefer being broken and you not caring to this. I don't know where I went wrong this time. I can't make it up to you.

I love you. I have always loved you and I always will. I looked into your eyes and saw the sun. You were my cause. Everything I learned about being human, I learned from you. I have experienced love, happiness, anguish, despair, and hope at your hands. I wish you were here to teach me how it feels to be loved. I wish it was the beginning of us, when you still smiled occasionally and I had access to Heaven.

There's only one way for me to get there now. I will do it for you. I have crossed oceans for you and I will never stop. I love you, my hunter. I will see you again."

From the sleeve of Castiel's trenchcoat slid a pristine silver blade. His fingers clenched around the handle. His jaw was visibly tense. Tears that he couldn't stop ran down his face. His chest felt tight from holding his breath. He knew that if he tried to draw in a quiet breath, he would have no power over the glass-shattering sobs building up in his core.

He pressed the knife to his stomach. In that moment, his trembling stopped. A calm overcame him so suddenly it held the power of the pain that he'd been enveloped in only seconds ago. He tore his gaze away from Dean's headstone and looked up. He wanted to see the sky. He wanted to see Dean. He felt numb. He had nothing to feel anymore. He could feel the pressure from the blade slowly building just below his rib cage. The knife pierced skin and he felt a searing pain, as if the blade was lined with snake venom. As far as he was concerned, it was.

The blade was forced deeper into his vessel, slicing through the skin and into his grace. He felt the heat of his grace flickering under his skeleton. He knew that if he could look upon himself now, his skin would be illuminated with a white-blue strobe light outlining every cavity in this vessel's skeleton and pouring from his eyes. He always thought it would erupt out of his mouth like a volcano but it slipped through like mist creeping over a moor. The grace left his extremities first, slipping from his fingers and toes, then his hands and feet. It left behind cold. He imagined that it was how humans felt when they got frostbite. Maybe it was how Dean felt in his final moments.

The blade seemed to slide into him on its own now. The deeper it went, the more erratic his grace became. It pounded like a heart high on adrenaline now. It seared his lips and turned his eyes to ash. The heat ripped the wound open wider, burning away the edges of the skin. As more skin burned away, more of his grace escaped from him. It felt as though the pain of Dean's death was manifesting itself in a physical form. He couldn't hold onto the angel blade anymore. His fingers loosened from around the handle and his arms fell limp beside him. He couldn't hold his head up anymore. If Dean was beside him, he would've closed his eyes as his gaze traveled down to the wound. He kept them wide open, taking in the view of his grace erupting from him. It was reassuring.

In one blinding flash, his grace left him. Now only faint mist trailed from the corners of his mouth. The muscles in his face relaxed. His body went limp. His spine succumbed to gravity, falling backwards and curving over his bent legs until he hit the ground and his arms splayed out like the broken wings of a butterfly. His grace ascended and dissipated. His eyes were no different than they'd been minutes before. They were still wide open, but now they couldn't see anything. His eyes had been glazed over since the moment he watched Dean die for the last time.

This was not the place where Cas died, that was in a small field in the middle of nowhere alongside Dean. This was not suicide, he'd been dead for far too long. This was a hybrid of angelic apathy and partially-formed human emotion rejoining its teacher. This was two lovers colliding in the cosmos, taking each other in their arms and pressing cold, dead lips together, tasting the wisps of their breath and drowning in the warmth of each other. This was how it was supposed to be.


End file.
